Where
by northernexposure
Summary: Ruth contemplates. H/R one-shot, post 8.8 so beware SPOILERS.


Where

A/N: A Harry/Ruth one-shot, set post 8.8, so spoilers involved. I am so, so tired. Just needed to write something, and this is what came out.

* * *

The hospital room was a sterile space in style as well as in cleanliness. The walls were white and bare apart from the television bolted to the wall. It was on but muted, the chaos in the aftermath of the bomb playing out in fast-moving, multi-coloured silence. She watched as another replay showed the event, and turned her face away as debris and flames lit up the London skyline. The rolling news stations were having a field day, every moment an interminable homage to the destruction.

Ruth realised that she hadn't removed her coat, despite having been sat exactly where she was for the past two hours. It was, she supposed, testament to the way she had ended up here in the first place: by accident, almost, or at least without consciously having made the decision to come. It was as if her legs had brought her here automatically, circumventing the numbness that had engulfed her mind. She had arrived here, and stayed, but her mind had not registered the fact, parked in neutral for when she was ready to move off again, for when she was ready to resume control and take her body to where she was supposed to be, rather than where she had somehow ended up.

Blinking, Ruth found herself confronted with the epiphany that with that one fleeting thought, she had inadvertently nutshelled her entire life.

The trick, she reflected, silently, absently, was knowing _where_ one was supposed to be. Four years ago, she hadn't a clue. She'd been cast adrift - literally as well as figuratively - sailing out of that cold London harbour alone, friendless, possessionless. She'd had no idea where to go, or what to do when she got there, or how to behave, or who she should be. And yet in that leaving, in that parting, she had known, finally, where she _should _be. After years of self-denial, of desperate self-preservation, of telling herself that it was impossible, and moreover, improbable... In that moment of being irrevocably cast away from everything, everyone she knew – she had been given the only certainty in her existence at that moment: that had she had more courage, sooner, she could have been happy.

It had taken her a long time to get over that. The deep, bottomless longing, but also the feeling that tomorrow, her life would go back to normal. That she could go home, and pick up where she had left off. In that first year, Ruth continually woke up having forgotten what had happened and where she was. For a split second, everything was fine, everything was normal. And then reality would crash in around her, bringing with it the knowledge that there was no going back, and that the perverse flash of happiness she had so fleetingly experienced on that cold, dank dockside was gone forever. As surely as if it had never been. In her darkest moments, she wished it never had.

She'd settled in Cyprus because it was warm and because the weather was beautiful and because when she'd arrived, the morning market had been in full swing. Ruth had wandered among the produce, and the vendors had smiled at her, had offered her samples - dates, cheeses, sweets. It was the first time in the six months of indigence that she'd felt something - anything. It was the first time that she had felt there might be something else besides the magnitude of loss that had settled itself like a physical weight on her heart.

A year later, and she'd thought she'd found it - that elusive _where_. A mere two years later it no longer existed, but even after her return to London ("home", what a transient, subjective term) Ruth had not lost the sense that Cyprus - George, and by association, Nico - might have been it. The place she was supposed to be. And again, it had taken her a long time to make that feel right within her battered heart. The first time George had taken her out and kissed her goodbye, she'd been wracked with an irrational guilt. As if somehow, she was cheating. Which of course made no sense: not only had she not been in a relationship back home, even if she had been, that connection had now been brutally and finally severed. And yet... something in her soul had tied itself to someone else's, and it was more powerful than had she worn a physical ring on her finger. She thought now of Mr Rochester, teasing Jane with his invisible "string". But she had travelled further than the wilds of Ireland; indeed, she had transported herself to an entirely different plane of existence. She had died, and passed into limbo.

It was one of the reasons she and George had not married. Ruth had loved him, had loved his son, and had that black car not disturbed their peace they would have lived out their days together, happily, of that she had no doubt. But there was a part of her that had already been given away, a part of her she no longer allowed herself to think about, and yet that she was powerless to erase.

That hadn't made it any easier to come back. In fact, it had made it harder: if she had felt nothing, her guilt would surely have been less potent. And so she had squashed it into an even smaller, stronger box in the most secret recesses of her heart. She had ignored it, and when it had clamoured to escape, she had beaten it with the physical grief and guilt of losing George and Nico, moreover, of losing that elusive, glittering _where_.

Until the explosion. Ruth looked up, watching it replay, once again, on the screen. Fire and glass and shattered brick, an inferno that had killed one of Five's finest section chiefs. Ros Myers' shattered remains had been found entwined with those of the Home Secretary. Lucas North was severely burned and had been transferred to the East Grinstead special burns unit.

And Harry Pearce...

Harry Pearce was here, in the bed before her, having been struck by a chunk of flying debris that had impacted with his unprotected skull. He was unconscious, his head swathed in bandages, and although he was breathing unaided, there was no way of knowing how extensive his head injuries would prove to be.

And so here too, was she, beside his bed, because the phone call that had told her of his fate had numbed her body and that invisible cord had reeled her in, like a child in a fairytale finding its way back out of the maze.

It was as if her body had experienced an epiphany, and her defeated mind was wearily trying to catch up. Where else would she be? Of course she would be here, of course she would be by his bedside, as if they had turned back the clock, as if the last four years had never happened. As if she was still the same Ruth Evershed that worshipped the ground Harry Pearce paced upon.

Was she that same woman? Ruth didn't think so. In fact, she knew she wasn't. Too much water under the bridge, too much damage, too much lost. And yet she was still here. And she knew she would stay until he woke. Or didn't...

The numbness turned into an ache. Her eyes burned, and she blinked, feeling tears. So much loss. So much.

She reached out, running her fingers over his hand where it lay, still, on the bed. His fingers were paper-dry and surprisingly warm. A memory surfaced, of his hand curling around hers, late one night in an unlikely meeting place as rain distorted the florescent colours of a journey through London by night. She hadn't thought about it for years, and silently, her tears fell. So much loss. So much...

"Harry," she whispered. _Don't leave me,_ she wanted to say, _we've lost too many people._ I've _lost too many people. Please don't go..._

She removed her hand, reaching up to wipe away the tears. Ruth covered her face, trying to shut out the hospital room and the figure in the bed, trying to bring back the numbness, because to be numb was better than feeling this new, fresh pain.

"Ruth..."

Her name was spoken so quietly that for a moment she thought she'd imagined it. She removed her hands from her face. Harry's eyes were shut.

But his lips... his lips were moving.

"Where... Ruth... Where are you?" His voice was barely there. His hand fluttered, weakly, against the coverlet, looking for her.

Ruth stood, leaning over him and taking his hand.

"Here," she said. "I'm here, Harry. I'm here."

[END]


End file.
